


The Lady in the Tower

by Thistlerose



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Fairy Tales, Minor Character Death, Rare Pairings, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago, Middie Une sacrificed her soul to survive the war that ravaged her land. When the war ended, she disappeared. Did she become the mysterious and cruel Snow Queen?  Written in 2002.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a lesser-known version of "The Snow Queen," with some elements from Trowa's Episode Zero chapter. Stylistically, I think I borrowed rather heavily from Peter Beagle, particularly _Giant Bones._

There is a legend in the part of the world where I am from, about a beautiful fairy, a Snow Queen, who lived on the highest, most solitary peak in the mountains of the north. No one knew where she came from or for how long she had lived in her icy castle. The mountain folk, the goatherds and the miners and the hunters, knew about her and lived in awe of her legend. Those who survived the perilous journey to her castle and gazed upon her were smitten instantly, and longed to carry her back to their village. But if the Snow Queen's face and form were perfect as a snowflake, her heart was as cold as one, and she would have no suitor. Some say she was cursed, that in ages past she had spurned the wrong demon and in a jealous rage he decreed that if he could not have her, no one would.

That's only one legend, but it is also said that each suitor was allowed to enter the great ice castle with the crystal roof, where the Snow Queen's throne stood. But the instant he declared his love and asked for her hand, thousands of goblins appeared to grasp him and push him over the rocks, down into a bottomless abyss. And the Queen watched from her tower without the slightest flicker of emotion, her heart--if indeed she had one--a lump of ice.

Nevertheless, word of the Snow Queen's beauty spread and one day it reached the ears of a handsome young chamois hunter who lived in a green alpine valley far to the south. I will return to him in a little while. First there is another legend I have to tell you. I do not know if it is connected to the legend of the Snow Queen, but it may be. Listen to it, and then you tell me.

 

She can not remember April, or birdsong, or the feel of cool, wet grass beneath her bare feet. As far as she knows the world has always been black and red, the sky choked with fire and smoke, the well water almost black with ashes and other filth. The only lullabies she can remember are the screams and wails that rise to her bedroom window from the street below. She has always been hungry, always been scared. She was a very young girl when the Barons' Wars escalated and became the Great Wars--if wars can ever be considered great--and every pleasant memory from her childhood has either been forgotten or else stored away in some place in her heart that is a secret even to her. Her name, as best we can discern from those few records that survived that horrible age, is Middie Une, and at the time this story beings she is probably about ten years old.

What she does remember is kneeling on her straw pallet by the window daily, watching flames lick the charcoal sky. She grips the windowsill and feels nothing, not even when jagged splinters drive into her fingers and droplets of blood stain the crude wood. Sudden wintry blasts blow smoke into her face, stinging her eyes, making her choke, but she does not move, only blinks and pushes the hair out her of her eyes with a dirty hand. Over the crackling flames and the wails from the neighboring houses she can almost hear the clop-clop of hoof beats, half-see the bulky black shapes of the armored warhorses, writhing like dragons behind the curtain of smoke.

One day there is a knock at the door.

"Answer it, girl," her father, his voice weak from a succession of coughing fits, orders.

Middie shrugs, stands, and walks to the door, gathering her rags about her as she does. She draws the bolt, but does not unfasten the chain. She opens the door a crack and is surprised to find her vision full of mud-splattered, dented chain mail. Tilting her head back she peers into the darkness, but can not discern a face.

"Let me in, girl," a big voice demands.

"I will not," says Middie, clutching the doorknob. "There is nothing for you here. What food and water we have is not fit for Lord C--'s men." The words come out sounding as though they have been choked from her; her belly is cold. She is frightened, she realizes dimly. More frightened than she can ever remember being. This man--if man he was--must not come into her father's house!

The stranger does not seem perturbed by her dismissal. He laughs, and to her ears his laughter rattles like bones. "Your manor lord is dead," he informs her. "The rebel armies are gathering in the south and we need every man to fight them off. Should we fail they will take this village and all the others around it. And when they seek entrance to your house they will not knock. They will come and take what they will, and it will not be food or water they will be after. Now let me in."

Middie swallows hard and shakes her head. "I can not," she insists. "My father is too sick to fight. He began coughing up blood last night. He can not even get out of bed, much less lift a sword. It is the plague."

"Have you no brothers?"

"My three brothers are younger than I am, and small and weak as babies. The well water is contaminated, and what crops that could be harvested went to feed the soldiers. Our herd animals are dying. Their bodies are burnt on the same pyres as the people. No doubt you saw them."

"YOU have spirit enough."

"I..." Middie looks down at her feet. Blue veins stand out against her skin. Knobby ankles jut out of her shoes. Her stomach is so empty that she no longer feels hunger. "I would not say that," she mutters.

"I would." Though she can not see his eyes Middie feels the man's gaze raking up and down her small body. She trembles under his scrutiny, but she holds herself erect. "Yes, indeed I would," the man murmurs almost to himself. "You're a scrawny girl--too skinny to interest my men. But you're healthy. And you do have spirit. Belike some god--or some demon--holds you in his favor. That being the case, perhaps you could be of some use to us."

A cold wind lifts and spills Middie's hair about her bowed shoulders. She hears the words and understands them. "No," she says softly.

"Yes," says the man, still to himself, but in a normal voice as though he is done musing and has reached a decision. "Yes, you will do. Small and skinny, and quick no doubt with those coltish legs of yours. It's good that you're a girl; they'll think you're just some camp follower. They're more likely to think that, despite your looks, than to suspect you of being a spy. Now"--to Middie-- "say your goodbyes and let's go."

"I won't!" And suddenly there is a knife in her hand. It gleams in the dying daylight and the rust that encrusts the blade make it look blood-splattered. It has never been a weapon, but Middie brandishes it like a sword, remembering how the young pages held their weapons when she watched their practice long ago. "You will not come in!" she spits. "I will not go with you!"

The man only looks down at her and Middie feels certain, though she can not see his face, that he is far more amused than frightened. His soft and mirthless laughter confirm her fear.

"I was right!" the man says, sounding pleased. "You'll do, although I'll have to teach you a thing or two. Come now. Put that bread knife away and we'll be off."

Middie grips the knife's handle with both hands and wonders frantically what to do. There is no one she can call to for help. Her father and brothers are too ill, and her neighbors have either fled or else succumbed to the plague. She is alone.

She undoes the chain lock and runs at the man with a cry, stabbing upward at the dented chain mail.

He catches her easily, crushing her thin wrists in one large mailed hand, wrenching the knife from her and tossing it aside. Middie hears it clatter along the flagstones and then it is lost in the deepening twilight shadows.

"Brave, too," the man mutters approvingly as he fights to steady the girl's writhing form. "Or stupid. Oh, relax, girl. One way or another the war will be over soon and you'll be back here. You'll marry some village clod and have five screaming babies ere you're twenty. All this will be forgotten. If we lose, well, you'll be dead so it won't matter. Stop, I said." He shakes her roughly, but she keeps struggling. "Stop thrashing or I'll relieve your poor father and brothers of their misery!"

Fear for her defenseless loved ones brings Middie to her senses. She wills her body limp, clinging to one last hope: that by showing this evil man what a weak and fragile person she really is she might be allowed to go free.

No such luck. The man only smiles with satisfaction and tosses her up into his horse's saddle as though she is a sack of meal. He is up behind her before she has a chance to scramble back down, and they are off.

The acrid stench of burning bodies fills Middie's nostrils and smoke fills her eyes and mouth, making her choke and tear up, as they ride through the village. The man keeps one arm tight around her waist, but there is no chance of her bolting now; they are riding so quickly that a fall would kill her and Middie wants to live.

I will get home, she promises herself as they ride past the familiar houses and shops, now soot-blackened and gutted. I'll find my way back here and help my father and brothers somehow.

They pause only twice: once to steal food and blankets from an abandoned shop and once at the unguarded village gate.

"What's that thing?" the man demands, points to the stone altar that stands beside the gate under a shelter of leafless tree branches. Resting upon the altar was a lumpy stone thing that vaguely resembles a seated man. Time and harsh weather have worn away most of his features, but the broad smile remains. It has always cheered Middie in the past. This time, though, the sight makes her shiver with foreboding.

"It is our god," she replies with a shrug. "He is supposed to guard travelers until they return home."

"I wondered. Well, pray to your rock if you like. Maybe you'll see it again."

He gives her a few seconds, and then they are riding again, hard over the ravaged countryside.

Middie doesn't pray. I will get home, she thinks, is all she can think as the night hurtles past and the long road stretches out before her.

But she never did. Not really.

 

What happened to Middie Une after that is a matter of conjecture. The fate of children brought to the battlefield is not something about which I like to think. Most soldiers are trained to protect those weaker than themselves, but when conditions are very harsh... Well, I won't have you up tonight with nightmares, so I'll tell you what I think.

I think that Middie Une survived. As I have said records of that dark time are few and ill-preserved, but there is one that mentions a little blonde girl who worked as a cook in one of the mercenary camps. That is the last time anyone of Middie's description is mentioned in the records of that time, but I think she survived the war by working as a spy and by holding fast to the belief that some day soon the wars would end and she would be allowed to return to the family that needed her.

But the battlefield is no place for a child. What she did and what she witnessed, my lambs, I dare not tell you. The betrayals and the deaths, the pangs of hunger and fear, the keen remorse and grim satisfaction over having survived when someone else did not... There is no armor strong enough to protect the heart from such things as these, not for a grown man and certainly not for a child.

When I picture Middie she's huddled before a heap of smoldering ashes. It's night, but the smoke from the recently doused campfire blots the stars from view. There are other people in the camp and they sleep fitfully. One stands guard, but Middie slipped something into his drink and he'll soon doze as well. I picture a boy at her feet, lost in dreams. He is young; perhaps he is her very age. I made him up, but I'd like it if he were real. I'd like it if she had someone with whom she could talk, someone who might understand how she must feel.

Doesn't matter. She is wretched. These mercenaries have been kind to her--well, as kind as men living in such harsh conditions can be to a young girl--but she is a spy and the time has come for her to go back to her own camp. All the people here will die in the battle tomorrow because she knows their plans and she must tell them to the ones who hold her leash, who would harm her father and little brothers--providing they still live--should anything go amiss.

She looks at the boy at her feet. How she would love to slither down beside him in the dirt and put her arms around him so that they might share each other's warmth on this cold night! How she would love to wake him, grab his hand, and run away with him into the night, far away from this place.

She reaches out tentatively, touches his hair as she used to touch the hair of her baby brothers while they slept. His hair is so soft. How she'd love to...

Mustn't. Oh, the trouble she'd be in if she did!

She pulls her hand back, bites back an unhappy little cry.

She looks at his sleeping form, memorizing his features. If they meet again in another lifetime--if there are other lifetimes--she wants to know him on sight. She'll beg forgiveness then and maybe...

Oh, why think about it? The more she thinks, the more difficult her task.

She stands; her feet are so numb with cold that she almost falls over. She looks around. Yes, the man left to watch is now asleep. There is no one who can stop her.

She buttons her cloak, takes one last look at the sleeping figures huddled around the campfire. When she comes to the point after which she'll no longer be able to stand it she tears her gaze from them, and runs away into the night.

 

What happens in the morning can only be called a massacre. No, I'll not tell you any details! For one thing I don't know them and for another, you're too young. You're younger than Middie, and she was too young. Suffice it to say the rebel army is completely destroyed in a matter of hours. There was not even anyone left to bury the dead.

Was Middie there? I imagine so. There would have been no place else for her to go. I suspect remorse and sick curiosity would have drawn her to the battlefield after the fighting was over. I picture her walking over the crest of a scoured hill at sundown, staring at the bodies and patches of smoldering armaments with dull eyes. Every pale face looks like someone she knew, but she can't bring herself to go closer and see for sure. She is looking for the boy.

A man on a black horse rides up behind her. She does not turn when he approaches, but she knows who it is: the man who wrenched her from her home and brought her here to this misery.

"Hurry up and take whatever valuables you can find," he tells her. "We leave here in an hour. There's another rebel army camped some miles to the east of here and we'll need your...talents."

When he is gone she falls to her knees upon the charred earth, grabs her hair in her fists, and screams.

She can't do this again. She can't.

She will, though. They'll make her. They know exactly how to make her do what they want. "See this?" the man who brought her here will say as he pulls a map from his saddlebag and spreads it out on a table before her. "Here is your village," he'll indicate with a quick jab of his knife. "It'll take one of my men three days to reach it from here if he rides hard. That's how long your father and brothers will have to live if you don't do exactly as I say." And she'll give in. She's done it before, she'll do it again.

She yanks her hair until her scalp bleeds, screams until her throat is raw, but the tears don't come. It's like they've burned up inside her, or frozen. Strange how her chest feels so cold and empty, as though there is nothing in it at all. Strange how she can't hear the roaring of the blood in her veins, and strange how her torn scalp and scratched throat don't pain her.

"Why, I don't feel anything," she realizes. She feels a flicker of surprise, which she suppresses quickly. She mustn't feel anything any more, not ever again, not a single thing. If she feels--then she won't be able to do it. She remembers the anguish she felt leaving the campsite last night and the helplessness this morning watching the soldiers ride down on their unsuspecting enemy. She doesn't want to feel that again. She can't.

"Don't let me," she mutters. "Please, don't let me feel this way ever again. I don't want to feel anything ever again. Take everything inside of me. Please, just take it."

Well you know, demons like nothing better than a battlefield (where else can they witness the very worst of mankind for an extended period of time?) and I should think at least one would have heard her pleas. Now, demons love catching people in weak moments such as these, and binding them to promises made in anguish. So this one slithers out of the night and says to her, maybe sounding like himself, maybe sounding like the young boy whose death she caused, "Pretty child, I can help."

She looks up, sees no one. "Who is there?" she asks.

But demons don't like to answer questions, so this one says, "Nasty things, emotions. I heard you offer yours. I'll take them, if you like, but don't expect to get them back."

She turns this way and that, but still can't see a body. "Who are you?"

If the demon's taken the voice of the young boy, perhaps she thinks she's hearing a ghost. If that's so, then this won't be the last one she sees before this war is done. "Take my emotions!" she yells. "Take every feeling inside me! I don't want to feel anything any more."

And then it's done. But of course she feels no relief. She feels nothing.

This makes spying considerably easier.

 

In time the war ends. The rebel armies are crushed and a new leader is put upon the throne to keep them in line. Those who survive drift back to their homes, if their homes remain. Eventually Middie Une finds herself back in her own village, now plague-free. Maybe a year has past, maybe two or ten. She is numb to time, numb to all things. Her village is familiar, and yet it is not. There is a vaguely man-shaped rock sitting on an altar at the gate to her village that looks familiar, but she can't name it. Her feet walk along streets she knows she knows, but when she thinks about them she can't remember what they're called or where they go.

Some of the people know her.

"Why, Middie Une," says a woman. "We thought you were dead. What will you do now, now that your family's all gone?"

The words register, but all she can think is, So it was all for nothing.

She doesn't feel anything.

When she finds her own house--her feet know the way if her heart's forgotten--she looks at the little thatch-roofed structure, empty now, the little walled garden full of long-dead leaves and flowers. If she could feel, her heart would feel like that garden: closed off and heavily guarded, but with everything inside it yellowing and crumbling.

The boy didn't have to die, a voice deep inside her says. None of them did.

What boy? She can't remember any boy.

They'd have died anyway. Somehow or other.

Who would have?

It's a terrible thing when your heart remembers one thing, and your mind another.

Middie turns and walks from her house.

Where does she go? Who knows. She finds out soon enough that a peaceful world is no place for a person with no emotions, who has not even the memory of ever having had emotions. Maybe she wanders for a great deal, going from land to land watching things both beautiful and heart-rending, hoping for a flicker, the slightest feeling, but never finding it. Maybe she finds some of the men for whom she spied, safe at home with their families, happiness and contentment mingling with and mitigating remembered pain and fear.

This is my story, so I say she called upon the demons to help her once again, knowing this time what she did. I say they came for her and took her away to a castle on the highest, most solitary peak in the mountains of the north. I say the demons and goblins there became her jailers as well as her subjects for she was beautiful and clever. I say she became a thing out of legend--a Snow Queen--and that she ruled over a land as numb as her own heart.

 

There, now, this seems a good place to break. Yes, there is more, but I'll not tell it now. Why? Because I'm tired even if you're not. And let me remind you that you, my dear, were very sick not so long ago and need your rest. Now. Yes, I did mention a chamois hunter. I've not forgotten him. I'll tell you about him tomorrow.


	2. The Hunter

So where was I, now? Draw closer to the fire, love. And keep under that quilt. It's a cold night, and I'll not have you catching another chill. Ah, I left my coffee in the kitchen. Would you...? There's a love. And would you add a spoonful of brandy to warm these old bones? Ah, thank you. You, too, now, under the quilt.

So, I think I left off with the chamois hunter. You know what chamois look like. Yes, you do, for we saw some when I took you both to the Queen's Park. Forgotten? Well, they're mountain deer, a meter or so in length, and a meter or so high. They're nimble-footed creatures, and both the males and females have sharp, curved horns. In summer, when we saw them, their coats were light brown with a black stripe running down the back and a shock of white at the face and throat... Ah, now you remember! In winter they are almost black.

So, we have this young chamois hunter. He's handsome, tall, and slender of frame. He's lived most of his life out of doors, running through the fields and splashing in the mountain streams, so his light-brown hair is threaded with gold, his skin is the color of wheaten bread, and his eyes are as green as tea leaves. His name is Triton, and he lives in an alpine valley in some country to the south of here, and he and his young friends hunt the chamois in the surrounding mountains.

Word of the Snow Queen and her beauty reaches young Triton's valley who knows how many years after the end of the Great Wars. Hundreds, perhaps; maybe only a few, or maybe a thousand. However many, the name of Middie Une is no more than a scratch in the history books, unknown now even in her own village if it still stands. But the Snow Queen is the subject of songs and poems, plays, the dreams of men young and old, and the nightmares of girls. Who is she really, where did she come from, and when? Why does she stay locked away in her remote spire when so many emperors and princes, artisans and knights desire to make her their own and give her all that her beauty deserves?

She is a witch, some surmise, and cruel as she is beautiful. She delights in the agony men endure for her sake. (Yes, many have gone in search of her, and none has yet returned, or so the legends say.) She is a prisoner, suggest others. A besotted demon keeps her as one would keep a songbird, and uses her to lure men to their destruction. Others simply swagger and say she has simply not yet met the right man.

Triton says nothing. What he thinks of the Snow Queen--if he thinks about her at all--he keeps to himself.

Not so his young friends.

"Those knights and princes--what do they know?" says young Ralph one spring evening when he and Triton and their other friends are gathered in their favorite tavern celebrating the end of a successful hunt. "I mean," he goes on, after a long sip of his mead, "what have they got to offer a woman? Trophies? Gold? Palaces? She's a queen; she has all the wealth she could want. What she needs is someone with his feet firmly on the ground. She needs a real man."

"Well that counts you out," one of the young hunters jibes, and the others laugh.

Ralph smiles indulgently, but when they're quiet again, he continues. "I mean, all she'd be in someone's castle is another trophy. What woman wants that? Especially one who already has power. And I bet she doesn't want to be the subject of a hundred sappy songs and poems. Artists must be a dreary lot. I mean, why write about it when you can do it? Eh, no offense, Triton."

Triton, who plays the flute the so beautifully the nightingales often mistake him for a large, featherless, earthbound cousin, only smiles and sips his mead.

"He may not take offense," and they all turn to see Christine, Ralph's sweetheart who works at the tavern, "but I do."

They blush under her fierce blue gaze and begin to talk of other things. Later, though, as they leave the tavern, Ralph speaks of the Snow Queen again.

"I wonder who she is, really," he says as he and Triton walk through the calm April night. The breeze is perfumed and delicate. Above them the stars shine and shimmer. If they squint they can see the tops of the surrounding mountains, still snow-covered and pale as smoke against the dark sky.

"She's probably nothing," Triton says. "Just a song that's been passed on and embellished until it's become a legend."

"But there are so MANY songs. And if she isn't real, why is it no one who has gone to see find her ever came back?"

"That's what people say. And if it's true that no one's come back it could easily mean they met an end that has nothing to do with any Snow Queen. Think of the other legends you know. There's nothing but wilderness north of here. Jagged mountains, forests, and the creatures that live there..."

"If they exist, why can't she?"

Triton's caught, now, and Ralph knows it and laughs. After a moment, so does Triton. Neither mentions the Snow Queen again, but Triton knows that Ralph still thinks of her.

 

Spring goes on and becomes summer and the days grow longer and the grassy hills become covered with scarlet, white, and yellow flowers. Fireflies bob through the night air like tiny pools of lantern light and the air is full and fragrant. The snow is long vanished from the mountaintops; not so the Snow Queen from the hearts of the village's young men. They still dream of her, long for winter, and shudder at the vibrant greens, the black mud, the clear and chugging river water. Birdsong is not music to them. It grates against their ears, as the bright sunshine and the warmth gnaw at their other senses.

Triton alone is unaffected, but he has ever been skeptical of things he can not see with his own eyes. He watches his friends and listens to their words with growing apprehension. But there is little he can do. If spring and summer can not banish the Snow Queen from their minds, what good are his words? So he says nothing.

Summer wanes and the days grow shorter. The grass turns golden and in the mornings the air is crisp and cider-tinged. There is talk from a few valleys to the east, of a young man who has gone missing. Some say he went in pursuit of the Snow Queen. Triton watches Ralph's face as he listens to this news and is not pleased by the hungry gleam in his friend's dark brown eyes.

In a few short weeks there is frost on the ground and the coats of the chamois begin to change from brown to black. The young men of the village take up their spears and crossbows and head for the mountains. In years past the hunting of the chamois has been hard but joyous work. The young men would race one another, tell stories by campfire, play pranks, and laugh at one another's jokes. This autumn they are silent, their gazes trained not on the tracks of the animals they hunt, but on the mountaintops, which are once again snow-covered. Triton watches them, hears the rustle of dying leaves, feels the wintry chill in the air and does not know what to do.

One night in mid-November the snow begins to fall. Triton lies in his bed and watches the flakes patter lightly against his windowpane. He is half-asleep. Around him, everything is quiet and dark. But the moonlight shimmers through the heavy clouds, spilling onto the snow and turning the little flakes blinding white. How beautiful they are, like tiny, fiery dancers, dressed all in lace. They must have a queen, he thinks dreamily. They must be dancing for someone. He falls asleep thinking this thought, but his dreams are full of autumn bracken, trees with leaves like bunches of garnets and topazes, clear mountain streams, and the flashing, leaping, almost flying chamois.

In the morning Christine comes to him in tears. Ralph is gone, she says. Triton and Christine think the same thing: he has gone in search of the Snow Queen. But he may not have, he may have gone to a neighboring village or for a walk in the mountains... So, they wait.

The next day, when Ralph is still not to be found, Triton, feeling ill, joins the other villagers searching for him. They send messages to all the neighboring villages, but no one has seen him. They search the mountains and the woods where the snow is already melting, but find no sign of him. Triton remembers the dancing snowflakes and the moonlight and knows in his heart where Ralph must have gone.

So he loads his pack with food and supplies, sharpens his arrowheads, and sets out northward. With luck he'll overtake Ralph before the next snowfall. He does not know if any of the tales are true, if there are mountains like shards of broken glass awaiting him, if there are dragons that breathe acid, witches who eat the flesh of men, or a woman as beautiful and cold as a snowflake. But Ralph is real, and he knows that Ralph is somewhere in the wilderness. And Ralph, being real, can be found and brought back to Christine, who is also real and who should not be made to weep. I'll find him, Triton thinks. And I'll come back.

But you know, I don't think he ever did. Not really.

 

Triton journeys northward for days and days and it isn't long before a quest that seemed simple at the outset begins to seem very difficult indeed. Imagine how vast the world must seem to one who has lived all his life in one sheltered little village. Of course Triton is no stranger to the wilderness. He could never lose himself in his own woods and mountains. But these are not his own woods and mountains and he does not know the passes or what might guard them. There are roads of course, for the merchants, and the wayfinders, and the journeymen. But they're not meant to be traveled in the winter, for the snow hides them from view. So Triton wanders, his gaze on the distant peaks. He stops at inns when he finds them, and hunting lodges, asking if anyone has seen Ralph. Well, maybe someone has and maybe someone hasn't, Triton's told. It's not for the innkeepers or the hunters to remember the name and face of every smitten young fool who passes through.

With failing spirit, Triton presses on until he reaches the Northern Strait. Miles away, he can see the thin white line of the ice-covered northern continent. The black, choppy water is far too cold to swim, though, and the ferry does not operate so late in the year. He paces the shore, his gaze on the wisps of mountains so far away. Did Ralph manage to come this far, he wonders. And if he did, how did he get across?

There is a splash, and Triton turns to see a tiny ball of light bobbing toward him through the darkness. At first he thinks it's a lantern, but the light is wan, almost cold--not like fire at all. His hand on his crossbow, Triton waits. There is the smooth sound of a boat on water, and then a muffled thud as the boat touches land. A splash, a curse, and the light draws nearer, illuminating faintly the frame of a man.

It is the strangest man Triton has ever seen, and he grips his crossbow tightly. Long, lumpy nose like a peeled potato, clumps of hair that look like drowned grass poking out from under a shapeless cap, broad, hunched shoulders, bowed legs, enormous feet, and long, thin fingers that curl below knobby knees. Even hunched over, though, he is as tall as Triton, and when he opens his mouth, the light falls on many sharp, pebbly teeth.

Triton, who never took seriously the faerie stories his grandma told him as a child, racks his memory for some way of dealing with trolls. They like to bargain, he remembers desperately. They are fierce, tricky fighters, and very strong--but they like to bargain. Do they break their bargains, though? Triton tries to recall, but as he's doing so the troll stops quite near him--not TOO near him, mindful of the crossbow--and smiles. It is not a smile to fortify the spirit.

"So here's another one," the troll says, showing an alarming number of teeth. "You're on a fool's errand, boy. Even now, some prince must be making love to your Snow Queen."

"I doubt that," says Triton dryly. "If the tales are true, she's not interested in any suitor."

The troll narrows his dim little eyes, and his smile slides wider, revealing even more teeth. "Oh, she'll give in eventually. She's a woman. Who knows," he goes on slyly, "maybe you're the one to strike her fancy. You've a pretty face and a strong body. Although the one before you was very handsome, too. A hunter, he was. From the south country."

Triton's heart gives a great leap--oh, can it be Ralph?--but then he realizes. The troll is baiting him. Triton decides not to speak of his true errand. Let the troll think he's another smitten, would-be suitor. "Well, then," he says, "how did the ones before me get across the water? I heard a boat, before."

"My boat," says the troll. "They went in my boat. I rowed them all across the icy water. I'll take you, too, if you pay the fare."

"And what is the fare?"

The troll is silent for a moment, like he's trying to come up with something really terrible. Triton waits impatiently. Finally--

"It's awfully bleak up here, don't you think?" says the troll. "Nothing but cold water, ice, and seagulls. It's not much of a life. I should like some memories of sunshine and spring, spiced wine, and maybe a girl or two to keep me warm at night. Give me your memories. Give me all of them except that of your goal...and I'll take you across."

Triton stares at the troll with mingling disbelief and revulsion. The troll smiles back; he's not joking. Triton's gaze goes to the lantern the troll carries. Only, it's not like any lantern Triton has ever seen. It's a little jar, dangling by a bit of thick twine, from the end of a long stick. There are little things inside the jar. Little things that move and glow, some relatively bright still, others very dim indeed. They don't really look like anything--but are any Christine-shaped? Are there any from his village? Triton feels little icy fish swimming up through his veins.

He says, "They all just gave you their memories? Isn't there anything else you want? It's cold, here. What about my hat..."

But the troll shakes his head. "Everyone pays the same fare. Look, some of these memories are fading." He shakes the jar, jostling the little glowing things. They flutter and spin like moonlit snowflakes. "I need to replenish my store. The winter's just started, after all. Come now, I'm sure you have some sweet memories you wouldn't mind parting with. You'll forget them all anyway, when you see the Snow Queen face to face. Really, I'm doing you a favor. Memories get in the way. You'll want a clear goal if you're to be the first to clasp her in your arms."

So this is why none have yet returned. Triton thinks quickly. He must get across. Should he slay the troll? Could he? He glances at his crossbow, but so does the troll and Triton knows that the other has guessed his mind.

The troll smiles again, nastily. Says, "And what would you do afterward? You've the look of a southern man. Can you row across this water? You wouldn't know what to look out for. I tell you, there's more than water and ice to fear."

So Triton thinks again, while the troll watches him hungrily. And he thinks of an idea, one that is risky, but it's all he can think of and he must get across.

He thinks of his goal. He holds it tightly inside his head, and nods. Then he hears the troll chuckling, sees him taking the little jar and unscrewing the top, keeping his long palm over it so none of the memories escape. He presses the jar to Triton's lips--Triton recoils from the rough, hairy skin, but the troll pushes his face forward--and for one moment he knows exactly who he is, where he came from, who he left behind... And the next moment all he can remember is his goal, his one goal.

"I wonder what you've given me," says the troll, replacing the jar's lid. "Be sure I'll savor it. And now then, my boat awaits. Come. I wager you're in a hurry."

Triton is led to the boat, which bumps and shakes in the rough waves. He gets in and the troll gets in after him, then pushes off with his long pole. Out they go into the water. The cold wind and the screaming of the seagulls fills Triton's ears. He breathes in the salt-encrusted air and wonders how he came to be sitting here. He tilts his head back, sees the stars through the clusters of clouds. They form patterns, he realizes. Do the patterns have names?

"On second thought," grates the troll through the darkness, "maybe you won't be the one to win her. You're as gullible as all the others."

Others?

Triton looks at the water. Chunks of ice float past the boat. Hands reach up from the water, pale, wasted-looking hands. Some of them grasp the boat, but the troll pokes them loose with his pole. Triton shudders.

"Merrow," says the troll pleasantly. "They'll drown you and eat you if you're not careful. Also might want to look out for selkie. They can look like seals or a beautiful woman or man. One look and you'll be smitten. You'll dive right in after them, forgetting, naturally, that the water's cold and you can't breathe it." He laughs. "Between selkie and Snow Queens, it's a wonder there's any of you left."

Presently they reach the other shore and Triton steps from the boat. One foot still on the prow, he turns to the troll, who is saluting him jauntily, and says, "I take it you're going back."

"Right you are. My burrow's on the other side. I have some fresh, new memories to play with."

"But how will I get back?" Triton presses. "Is there a signal, a..."

"There is no way back!" The troll glares at him, his tallow eyes suddenly fierce. "You'll meet your death between here and her castle, or she'll finish you herself."

"Who will?"

"The Snow Queen! Are you daft? What do you think you came here for?"

But Triton says, his glance going from the pole to the troll's eyes and back, "I don't know of any Snow Queen or any castle. My goal is to take back my memories," and he comes down hard on the prow of the boat, causing it to rock, causing the surprised troll to lose his balance. Triton lunges for the pole.

He gets it in his hands--he's quick, as all who run after the chamois must be--but trolls are very strong, and once angered, they'll fight as dirtily as anything. No sooner is the pole in Triton's hands than the troll's hands are at his throat. Big, hairy hands, and fingers as rough as ropes. They wrap around Triton's neck and squeeze. Triton gets the pole between his chest and the troll's, but it's no good; the other is too strong. Triton feels the air going out of him, sees the stars overhead going dim. Beneath him, the boat rocks dangerously. It isn't anchored. It will drift out into the strait again, and then, if he's not already dead, he'll be even worse off.

Using the troll's own body as a wedge, he snaps the pole in half and thrusts one splintered end into the troll's grinning face. The troll falls back with a snarl, and there's Triton on his feet again, stars exploding in his head, but breathing. The little jar and half the pole in his hands, Triton staggers to the boat's side and jumps out.

He lands up to his knees in freezing water and almost falls over from the shock of it. He hears heavy breathing at his neck, so he turns around fast and strikes the troll, knocking him back into the boat. Then he pushes the boat out into deeper water. He squints in the darkness, sees the troll rise, but already there are meters between them and the distance is growing. The troll howls and swears--no creature alive can swear like a troll--but there's nothing he can do save paddle back home with the other half of the pole that Triton left in the boat. Soon he's gone in the darkness, and all Triton can hear is the pounding surf.

Which he stumbles out of right fast for he has no mind to freeze to death.

On the shore he cups the jar between his hands and wonders. What to do? How does it work? He peers at the little glowing things, but though some are brighter than others, they're all more or less the same. He doesn't remember how his memories got there, only that they are there, and that he must get them out for that's his one goal.

He undoes the lid and slow as fireflies, the memories come out. They float around him like snowflakes or butterflies, and some land in his lashes, some on his lips, some in his hair and on his shoulders. Is this right? Well, his memories come back to him--his home, his friends, the crunch of bracken beneath his boots and the air ripping through his lungs as he chases the chamois--but other memories come to him, too, ones that he knows are not his own. He's never lived in a palace. He's never written a sonnet or painted a picture. He's never ridden into battle or crossed a desert. He's never loved Christine. But those memories are in his head, too. The jar in his hand is empty. Oh, what has he done? He's taken the memories of the men who came before him, and how can he ever give them back?

This is what he thinks about as he makes his way over the snowy plains, toward the mountains. Snow falls almost constantly and heavy clouds block the stars from view. Evergreens rise around him like giant spears and over the howling wind he begins to hear the wild whine of dire wolves.

Perhaps it is fortunate he took those memories, because some of the men who came before him came from northern countries and knew how to survive in such conditions. So now Triton knows and it's without too much difficulty that he makes his way to the mountains.

And this is where trouble finds him again. Those dire wolves he heard when he left the beach--he hears them again now, only much louder, much nearer. And they're not the only dangers. Icebound peaks lashed by bitter wind. Ground that looks solid but will give way under a man's weight. And yes, those ice dragons that breathe acid, yetis, and witches. All these things lie in waiting to catch our Triton and stop him achieving his goal.

It is growing late and the fire is burning out. Let us say Triton makes it through the mountains alive and that he sees, finally, shining like a jewel in the pale northern sun--the Snow Queen's castle.

It is like something out of a dream. Delicate as blown glass. Pale as smoke, spires that rise straight as swords. And yet it must be strong to withstand the winds that sweep the crags. This is where Ralph has gone, so it's is where Triton must go.

Two rows of stone goblins line the path--yes, finally a path!--that goes to the Snow Queen's castle. Triton pays them no mind, but marches straight to the door and, finding it unlocked, pushes it open.

He finds himself in a long hallway made all out of ice and crystal. It shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow, but it's a cold light, and Triton feels he's walking through a strange underwater world, with all the shifting greens, blues, and purples. Several times he thinks he hears scurrying behind him, but when he turns around, arrow fitted to bow, there's no one there. Only little stone goblins, like the ones outside. He pays them no mind and continues down the long hall.

Presently the hallway opens into a throne room and there she is, perched like a bird on a throne that looks like a lily. The Snow Queen. She makes no move as he approaches, unafraid--

What? Oh, what does she look like? Well, she's very lovely, of course. Even Triton, who only half-listened to those songs and legends, can see that her beauty has been sorely misrepresented. She is perfect as a snowflake. I imagine she has yellow hair, pale as winter sunlight, that tumbles over her breast and down her back, all the way to the floor. Her eyes are the powdery lavender of dusk. Her skin is white as milk and as smooth. Her mouth is pale and small. Her gown is of purest white. There are tiny crystals or even tiny shards of ice that glitter on her hair and skin.

She makes no move as Triton approaches, only stares at him with those wide twilight eyes. Triton grips his crossbow, questions ready on his tongue.

But when he stops at the base of her throne and looks up at her he finds he has no voice with which to speak. He opens his mouth. Nothing. Ralph! He must ask her--

But he can't. As hard as he tries, he can't make a sound.

All he can do is look at her and as he does he sees a glimmer of something in her perfect face that perhaps no one else before him has seen.

Leaping to the surface and then diving back down again, quick as a fish, is an inexpressible sadness.

He barely glimpses it, but it stays his hand and stops his voice.

I don't know how long they look at each other. A long time can feel like a little while, so I think maybe even they don't know. Because Triton does not raise his crossbow and because he does not proclaim his love and demand her hand, the Snow Queen does not see the need to summon the goblins. Because the Snow Queen does not seem dangerous, and because of that thing he thinks he saw, and because she is so beautiful, Triton can only look at her.

Finally, because he feels his bones beginning to ache and because she seems to expect something of him, he drops his crossbow and slowly, so as not to alarm her and perhaps break whatever spell they are in, he draws his flute from his pocket, puts it to his lips and plays the first tune that comes into his head.

It's a tune from his homeland, one he's grown up knowing. It's always been just a silly rhyme to him, one the girls liked to chant as they skipped rope. Listening to it now, it occurs to him that it's really a sad tune. The words go something like this:

"Sometimes, maybe,  
Now or never  
What is gone  
Is gone forever

Rowan, hazel,  
Thyme, and heather  
All are faded  
In the nether

North wind, south wind,  
East and west,  
Everything is  
Laid to rest."

When he's finished the throne room seems no brighter than it was when he began, the air no warmer. But the Snow Queen says in a voice like wind moving over a snowdrift, "Play for me again."

 

So Triton stays in the Snow Queen's castle. He becomes her court musician, and more, for he is the first person to whom she has spoken in so many years that she barely remembers words. He finds his tongue eventually, and asks her about the young men who came before him, about Ralph.

"I don't know where they are," is all she says in reply.

"But they came here," he insists as they walk together through the yawning, echoing corridors one day. "I know they made it as far as the Strait. Did you see any of them, ever?"

He's asked too many questions too quickly, and it's a long time before she answers.

"There were men. I don't know how many. I don't know where they went. They wanted me." She shrugs.

But you don't, is what she doesn't say and Triton is glad she does not say it, because then he would have to say that she is wrong. He does want her. But some warning in her eyes keeps him from telling her. He does not understand it, but that does not matter, as he is the only one there.

 

Or so he thinks. He's wrong, of course, and the Snow Queen knows it. The goblins are also there and they watch their mistress jealously. At first they are not worried by the presence of this young man from the south, handsome as he is. Today or tomorrow he will make the mistake that all men who come here make, and ask the Snow Queen to marry him. Then she will summon the goblins, her faithful keepers, and they will cast him into the bottomless abyss, like all the ones before him.

But he does not ask. Oh, it's in his eyes. It's in every part of his body except his words. It's in the way he moves when they walk down the corridors and the snowy path together. It's in his fingers when they fly over his flute. It's in his voice when he speaks to her softly. But the exact words remain unspoken.

Still, she seems to answer him back. The goblins see, with growing apprehension, the softening of their mistress's demeanor. The way she almost smiles when he is not looking. The way her pretty eyes go soft and misty when he plays. The way she asks him about his homeland and seems to take interest, as she never has before, in the fates of the men who came before.

She knows. She can't not know. But she doesn't like to think about it. Still she knows, and she knows that the goblins are watching her young man and they're not liking what they see.

"You promised," they whisper to her when she is alone. "You promised you'd be ours, only ours. We saved you from the wicked world, built you this castle, on the promise that you'd be ours forever."

She does not say anything.

"We'll do it. Let us do it."

She says nothing.

One day, though, the goblins decide they are tired of waiting. One dusk, as the young man comes running back to the castle after a hunt in the mountains, the goblins leap out at him from the shadows, surround him, and grab him.

He is strong. But there are thousands of them, and they soon overwhelm him. Scratching, biting, kicking, and clawing, they drag him to the lip of the abyss and push him over.

The Snow Queen watches from her tower, as she has done a thousand times before, knowing that there is nothing she can do. She watches her young man cast one last glance at her. Watches him fall.

Feels something shatter inside her as a young girl who has been buried and forgotten for years and years lifts her head and screams. The Snow Queen screams with her. Tears fall down her cheeks, hot tears that scald and sizzle as they hit the icy floor. In the highest, most inaccessible peaks there's a white flower that grows--edelweiss--and some say it first sprang from the Snow Queen's tears.

Some also say the story ends there, with Triton's death and the Snow Queen's tears. But I always imagined a different ending and I'll tell it to you and you can tell me what you think. Because I think the Snow Queen might have been Middie once and I think she became Middie again when the tears fell from her eyes. And Middie would not have done nothing.

I see her wiping her eyes and hiking up her skirts, and jumping in after Triton.

Now, wash your face, brush your teeth, and when you're in bed I'll tell you what I think happened next.


	3. Ever After

This is what I think happened.

I think they both lived, Middie and Triton. I think Middie fell for a long time, and that she landed at the bottom of the abyss and found Triton badly hurt, but alive. I think she saw in him the shadow of the boy her treachery slew on the battlefield long, long ago, and I think she vowed she'd not lose this love, too. And she didn't. At least that's what I think. She worked hard and she saved him. And when he woke, free of fever, his broken bones mending, she told him everything she remembered about herself and he told her everything he felt. And she listened without fear, and accepted his love and gave him her own in return.

When Triton could walk again they explored where they had landed and discovered a maze of tunnels. And in those tunnels, hanging like cobwebs, were the ghosts of all the men who had come seeking the Snow Queen, and who had died at the goblins' hands. Ralph was there, too, and Triton wept when he saw his friend's ghost., who could never leave the place where he died because he'd forgotten his old life, and he couldn't find his way out of the tunnels.

Middie and Triton did not know the way, either, of course, but they had hope and they remembered the world above them, so they gathered the ghosts and led them. As they walked--or drifted as the case may be--Triton, who still had the men's memories stored in his own head, told them who they were and about the lands from whence they came and the ones they left behind.

I don't know how long they walked, Triton talking, sometimes playing his flute, Middie singing, the ghosts listening, but I think they found the tunnel opening. And then the ghosts drifted away like dandelion fluff, to be in the hearts of the people who loved them.

And Middie and Triton looked into each other's eyes, and took each other's hand, and walked out into the sweet golden sunshine.

 

When Mother Blomst finished telling the story she drew a deep, long breath and leaned back in her rocker, her hands folded in her lap. She smiled at her children.

"But did they ever go home, Mama?" russet-haired Katerina asked. "Middie couldn't, I suppose."

"No, she couldn't. And neither could Triton, I think," Mother Blomst replied. "Not the home he knew, anyway. There's some things you simply can't go home after. Your home is where you're loved, though, so anywhere Middie went with Triton would have been home to her."

"So what did happen afterward?" demanded Trowa.

Mother Blomst looked keenly at the boy who looked nothing like her or her daughter, the olive-skinned boy she had found in a basket one winter night many years ago and raised and loved as her own. She said, looking at him, "I think they did what most people do when they love each other and are free to love. I think they had children. I think their children had children. And who knows, maybe there are some people who can claim them as ancestors alive in the world today."

"But what about the goblins?" Trowa went on, oblivious to his mother's scrutiny. "Could they ever get a new Snow Queen?"

"I think," said Mother Blomst slowly, "I think that as long as there is war in the world, then there is always a chance some little girl or some little boy will be forced into the sacrifice Middie made. But there are Tritons, too. And that's a comforting thing." She kissed her son's cheek, and then her daughter's. "So, what do you think?"

The End  
12/22/02 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/thistlerose/pic/000c1p94/)

Artwork by Kristy


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